A History of the Cries of London Part 29

_Dust, O!--Dust, O!--Bring it out to day, Bring it out to-day, I sha'n't be here to-mor-row!_

[Ill.u.s.tration: Dust, O!--Dust, O!]

His noisy bell the dustman rings, Her dust the housemaid gladly brings: Ringing he goes from door to door, Until his cart will hold no more.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE DUSTMAN.]

Bring out your dust, the dustman cries, Whilst ringing of his bell: If the wind blows, pray guard your eyes, To keep them clear and well.

I am very glad 'tis not my luck To get my bread by carting muck; I am sure I never could be made To work at such a dirty trade.

Hold, my fine spark, not so fast, Some proud folks get a fall at last; And you, young gentleman, I say, May be a Dustman, one fine day.

All working folks, who seldom play, Yet get their bread in a honest way, Though not to wealth or honours born, Deserve respect instead of scorn.

Such rude contempt they merit less Than those who live in idleness; Who are less useful, I'm afraid, Than I, the Dustman, am by trade.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE BIRDMAN.]

Have pity, have pity on poor little birds, Who only make music, and cannot sing words; And think, when you listen, we mean by our strain, O! let us fly home to our woodlands again.

Our dear woody coverts, and thickets so green, Too close for the school-boy to rustle between; No foot to alarm us, no sorrow, no rain, O! let us fly home to our woodlands again.

There perched on the branches that wave to the wind, No more in this pitiless prison confined, How gaily we'll tune up our merriest strain, If once we get home to our woodlands again.

[Ill.u.s.tration: BUY A DOOR-MAT OR A TABLE-MAT.]

Stooping o'er the ragged heath, Thick with thorns and briers keen, Or the weedy bank beneath, Have I cut my rushes green; While the broom and spiked thorn Pearly drops of dew adorn.

Sometimes across the heath I wind, Where scarce a human face is seen, Wandering marshy spots to find, Where to cut my rushes green; Here and there, with weary tread, Working for a piece of bread.

Then my little child and I Plat and weave them, as you see; Pray my lady, pray do buy, You can't have better than of me; For never, surely were there seen Prettier mats of rushes green.

_I sweep your Chimnies clean, O, Sweep your Chimney clean, O!_

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE CHIMNEY SWEEPER.]

With drawling tone, brush under arm, And bag slung o'er his shoulder: Behold the sweep the streets alarm, With Stentor's voice, and louder.

_Buy my Diddle Dumplings, hot! hot!

Diddle, diddle, diddle, Dumplings hot!_

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE DUMPLING WOMAN.]

This woman's in industry wise, She lives near Butcher-row; Each night round Temple-bar she plies, With _Diddle Dumplings, ho!_

_Yorkshire Cakes, Who'll buy Yorkshire Cakes, All piping hot--smoking hot! hot!!_

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE YORKSHIRE CAKE MAN.]

Fine Yorkshire Cakes; Who'll buy Yorkshire cakes?

They are all piping hot, and nicely made; His daily walk this fellow takes, And seems to drive a pretty trade.

_Buy my Flowers, sweet Flowers, new-cut Flowers, New Flowers, sweet Flowers, fresh Flowers, O!_

[Ill.u.s.tration: FLOWERS, CUT FLOWERS.]

New-cut Flowers this pretty maid doth cry, In Spring, Summer and Autumn, gaily; Which shows how fast the Seasons fly-- As we pa.s.s to our final home, daily.

_Buy green and large Cuc.u.mbers, Cuc.u.mbers, Green and large Cuc.u.mbers, twelve a penny._

[Ill.u.s.tration: CUc.u.mBERS.]

A penny a dozen, Cuc.u.mbers!

Tailors, hallo! hallo!

Now from the shop-board each man runs, For Cuc.u.mbers below.

_Buy Rosemary! Buy Sweetbriar!

Rosemary and Sweetbriar, O!_

[Ill.u.s.tration: ROSEMARY AND SWEETBRIAR.]

Rosemary and briar sweet, This maiden now doth cry, Through every square and street, Come buy it sweet, come buy it dry.

_Newcastle Salmon! Dainty fine Salmon!

Dainty fine Salmon! Newcastle Salmon!_

[Ill.u.s.tration: NEWCASTLE SALMON.]

Newcastle salmon, very good, Is just come in for summer food; No one hath better fish than I, So if you've money come and buy.

_Buy my Cranberries! Fine Cranberries!

Buy my Cranberries! Fine Cranberries!_

[Ill.u.s.tration: CRANBERRIES.]

Buy Cranberries, to line your crust, In Lincolnshire they're grown; Come buy, come buy, for sell I must Three quarts for half-a-crown.

_Come buy my Walking-Sticks or Canes!